


Out Of The Door

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Angst, Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-04-10
Updated: 2005-04-10
Packaged: 2018-12-26 18:45:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12064851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: "Looking from a distance, IT looked just like another wall alongside another door."





	Out Of The Door

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

  
Author's notes: Thanks to Sharon, Erin and Ashton for their wonderful betaing work and suggestions!  


* * *

Looking from a distance, IT looked just like another wall alongside another door. 

A regular wall really, nothing special about it, or so you would think. 

But then, if you cared to get closer to it, you would find out little details. 

You would notice that the wall was made of deep red bricks, sturdy and made to resist. 

You would see that the door was not a wooden one, but rather a steel one, the kind you would find in a bank. 

The peculiarity was that every surface was covered in a thick layer of dust, as if no one had been there in a long time. 

There were handprints here and there; it looked as if someone had tried to scratch under the surface, but the signs faded in the incipient background of dirtiness. 

You looked at the wall alongside that door, and you couldn’t help yourself. You just had to wash away all the dirt. 

It’s an easy task, you thought, and you prepared to do it. 

You found the tools you needed, and when you looked at the wall again, you realized maybe it wasn’t really that easy. 

You suddenly realized the wall was as long as the Great Wall of China, the door as high as a mountain. 

But you didn’t give up. 

Slowly, gradually, you cleansed every centimeter of the wall, sponging, brushing, covering everything in water and soap and then water again, and then letting it all dry up. 

You did the same with the door. 

You spent months and months doing it, but you thought it to be worthwhile. 

Once the wall and the door were bright and shiny, you tried to open the door. 

You tried it, but it was locked up from the inside, and it didn’t budge. 

You went and returned, later, with grease and hairpins and a hammer and everything you could think of that you could use in a burglary. 

You worked on it for months because the damned lock wouldn’t give way, and more times than not, you thought about letting it go, about leaving and not looking back. 

You didn’t. 

So now has come the moment you have waited for, for a thousands years, it seems, the moment you’ll finally enter the room you have never been allowed to even think about before. 

You see the cracks on the wall, you hear the strange sounds emanating from the wood, but you don’t care. 

You think you’ll fix that too, eventually. 

You just need a little more time. You just need to enter the room, to finally see what you have worked so hard for. 

You slowly turn the handle. 

The door is heavy and old, it’s been a long time since someone wanted – needed – to enter the room. 

You push the door open a crack, and it turns heavily on its hinges; the sound resonating in your ears. 

You’re relieved, and proud, and just content – content – because that’s it; you succeeded where everyone else failed. 

You’re just about to see what many others have craved, but never had as their own. Now it will be yours. 

You’re just about to look at the contents of the room; you’re about to take that first peek, and then a quake shakes the earth. 

It’s a sudden vibration, and you aren’t ready for it. You fall backwards but you still hold tightly to the door handle and pull it back with you. 

The door slams shut with a sound of finality and you fall to your knees. The earth isn’t shaking anymore, but you can still feel the vibration in your body. 

When you stand up again and look at the door, you find it changed. 

You feel like you’re in an old-fashioned movie where everything is black and white. Here you look at the wall and the door, and they’re not deep red and brown. 

They’re this dark tone of grey, and for a moment you fear that if you touch it you’ll become grey too. 

But you have to touch it; you have to try the door again. 

So you do, and nothing happens. The door is stuck yet again. 

You take a few steps back to try and look at it from a distance again, to look at it from a different perspective, as if this way you could better understand. 

But you don’t; and everytime you walk backwards it’s like the wall and the door are moving backwards too, away from you and everyone else. 

A deafening silence overwhelms your thoughts. You wish you could shatter it and scream loudly, but you can’t seem to do that. 

So instead, you try to run forward, try to reach out desperately for it with your hand, but it won’t stop. Your hand hurts too, your drawing hand, and you take it back. 

The floor is shaking again, but this time the quake is more violent, more destructive. 

The creaks on the wall are stretching from top to bottom, creating an intricate spider web. 

Pieces of debris are falling from the ceiling, and you know you should move away, but you can’t make your legs move. 

You stay right there and try to follow with your eyes the door and the wall, but they are slowly disappearing behind a pillar of smoke and vapour. 

You hear a sound – the impact of wood against bone – and then the sound of the door slammed shut. 

When you open your eyes and find yourself in a hospital bed, with a bandage around your head and a feeling of whole and total numbness, all you remember is a smashed wall and a door you’ll never open.


End file.
